It's that ridiculous notion of trust, isn't it? You make your choices and as always it turns out you're not really in control of what happens to you or anyone else, but you're still stuck with the fucking consequences. Normally it's easy to say you had no real say in it, you couldn't possibly have known and it wasn't your fault. It's even true for the most part, but that fucking annoying little fact remains. You made the choice, thus it remains your responsibility. It's when the consequences come about because you chose to trust someone that fucked you over nonetheless it becomes so very clear. You fucked up first, by trusting them.
Own it. Take the rightful blame.
Then go introduce the people who broke that trust to the notion of consequence.
Penumbra, part Two: The Third Circle
A few months ago.You can never go home. Common enough to hear that nonsense when people realize they change, their homes change and everything turns out to be subject to progress, entropy and the whims of human creativity. It's absolute tripe of course. Home isn't a certain configuration of buildings, terrain or people. It's not unchanging men and women and the routine you once had. Home is where you belong and as you change so will home. Still, I wish I was stupid enough to believe that nonsense because then coming here would be bearably disappointing instead of just painful. It was home, but I don't belong.
The freezing wind playing with the fur cloak. The air feeling like it was composed of tiny knives as it goes through the nostrils. The glare of the cold sun on unbroken white snow and the feeling of countless familiar spirits surrounding this stretch of land that belonged to the Gripdjur. Might not sound pleasant, but it's home. Something to love, as it carves men and women into the best that they can be.
It was almost insulting that the volur assumed I wouldn't be a danger and simply gave me the usual traditional gear and free reign of the spirit rise, perched on a small plateau over the largest village of the clan, but I couldn't fault her for being annoyingly good at taking my measure. It took more effort to suppress my impatience, wrought from my life in space where everything is quick and efficient if at all possible. Down here it didn't work like that. She'd brought me here covertly for a reason, but it'd be revealed when it was time and not before. Impatience kills down here. Slow and methodical keeps you alive. Think before you act, because you don't get to make mistakes when the land kills without mercy.
Unfortunately, I am all too aware of my thoughts and as I stood on the perch over the village they only had one place to go. The last time I knew this place as home. The last time my clan could look upon me without the Slaver's Fang on my cheeks.
In another life. Another universe. Another reality. Same person.
Or just a few years ago. Feels like both sometimes. There was no trial or anything like that. The guilt was not in question, nor was the punishment. There was some discussion of the crime, but it was largely academic. No one could deny the desecration. The mockery. The failure. In the mountains above a name had been carved. Two halves joined together into one. For the first time one of the halves was not Minmatar, but Khanid. The rites and ceremonies had been recorded and the clan had gained one member and two had become one. Then one half betrayed the other and returned to their previous ways.
As one would expect really, but apparently my understanding of the world and the people in it had been less than stellar.
Of course, that half didn't exactly care about honor, consequences or such things. I thought she did, but then I also thought she'd left behind the ways of slavery and such so I didn't find it too surprising that I'd been wrong about that as well. One half of a whole betrayed herself, me and the clan but a fake coin doesn't have just one fake side. The whole coin is a forgery and if one side is to be condemned, so must the other.
So no trial. Just me and the elders of the clan. Every crime she'd committed before the joining of the whole, temporarily forgiven upon her apparent redemption but now remembered. Every crime she'd committed after, a fresh wound on the clan and the joined. For a brief moment as I stood there in the stone circle, surrounded by elders going through the list of crimes, I couldn't help but flash a crooked grin at the thought of her standing in my place in an Imperial court having my crimes read aloud as her own. Somehow I doubted she'd wasted any time trying to make it appear as if she'd never betrayed the Kingdom or the Empire as she had. A capsuleer wouldn't exactly have any trouble removing the marks of an adopted clan and tribe, but even she'd have to work hard to remove the data from the countless repositories throughout New Eden.
Not that it mattered. I cared little for crimes committed against the Empire and Kingdom. The crimes against my clan were mine to bear as everything was shared between the joined. Even if they weren't, I'd brought her here. I was responsible for our names becoming one on the mountain, desecrating one of the most sacred places of the clan. For the first time, it carried the name of a slaver. Through her, I was one. I was what I had fought almost my entire life.
You know how people like us tend to shut down the useless things in times of trouble? Shame, grief, fear and so on are very counter-productive when you're trying to get through a crisis. Especially those of us who are well trained and capsuleers to boot. Add the Horned Mask and there is nothing that can't be faced with a cold demeanor, stoic acceptance and strength. This was not an option.
I cried. Wracking sobs as I was laid down on the slab and the elder with the tattoo needle bent over my face to start marking me for what I am. I've been tattooed a great many times in my life and while there's pain there it can not even begin to compare to the pain of understanding what the marks symbolize. My failure. My shame. My crimes. My punishment.
I didn't want it. None of it. I wanted to run, fight my way free if necessary and flee to where I was God. Where my thoughts translated directly into the death of whoever opposed me and even my word was law. Where the planetbound like those who surrounded me now cowered before the might of the angry mad capsuleer gods, no matter their crimes or sins. Everyone there knew this. They had no illusions of having the strength or legal authority to compel me, yet they'd never even attempted to bind me. Confine me.
They already had, when they made this place my home.
My hands tightened into fists and my whole body lay rigid on the slab as pain, sorrow, grief and fear coursed through me and yet I simply did not even try to deny them. The slaver's fangs forming on my cheeks under the painful ministrations of a sure hand, stinging worse as my tears flowed across the raw tattoos were too well deserved to run away from. My crimes. My failures. My consequences to bear.
I've heard it said that the howl as they all denounced me and condemned into exile could be heard through the entire village. I don't really remember much of that, other than stumbling mostly naked to the edge of the village where the customary items had been left for me. I do remember how the stares felt. The entire village there to witness the marks upon my cheeks. Burning my face into memory so they could perform their duties if I ever returned. Exile ends with death, out there or upon coming back. For a moment I considered simply stopping as so many had in the past, when faced with their uncertain future. Simply kneeling in the snow and waiting for the merciful and quick end. It wasn't dishonorable, quite the opposite. It would allow the clan to erase the final vestiges of the failure, laying the crime to rest.
I'm not that honorable, I guess. I gathered up the pitiful cloak and ragged boots. The small waterskin and the staff.
... and I walked into the frozen wastes without looking back, tears still freezing solid on my face.
What I remember of the next few days doesn't really matter. If you don't know the frozen plains I can't describe them to you and if you know them all I have to do is look into your eyes and you'll recognize someone who has walked across them. Neither of us will want to dwell upon it. The important part is what happened when I finally reached the valley that led to the warm coastal harbor outside our lands, barely alive and my mind still paralyzed by an unending torrent of shame, terror and grief. I'll admit I'm still a bit proud of myself for instinctively avoiding the first two shots before I took one to the head and everything went dark.
I'm not going to talk about how to wake up from having been knocked out again, especially since I didn't know how to do it at the time. A blinding headache, fear, confusion and a fury that took complete control before I even recognized them, let alone could control them. I got to my feet without even registering the room around me, only noticing that there was someone in there and launching myself at him with murderous intentions. What can I say? I have anger issues and I'd had some really bad days. The dark skinned mountain of a man who's dreadlocks brushed the wooden beams of the cabin we were in wasn't entirely ready for the sheer amount of fury I leveled at him, but when you're built in the image of mountain ranges, battleships and fortresses - take your pick really - you don't tend to have much problems with a short, exhausted and even with the augmentations rather skinny Sebiestor no matter how angry she is. A backhand launched me across the cabin and almost knocked me out as I went through a bookshelf and made the thick lumber wall make a sound close to what it would sound like if it fell down.
Ow.
Allright, I have anger issues but I'm not
that stupid. After that demonstration of sheer power and speed, my brain started to catch up to recent events and forced me to study my captor instead of trying to jump to my feet again. That I couldn't feel anything but a mix of dull and sharp pain everywhere below my hair and I'd had my breath knocked out of me contributed as well. There aren't enough superlatives to describe Brutor men, I feel. Especially the ex slaves that were bred for size and physical strength. When you carve an image of a god in human shape, you give them ludicrous proportions. Much taller than you. Chests like hangar bay doors, shoulders you could take a walk on and thighs larger across than my waist.
This guy was actually a bit small for those ex slave Brutor, and he was still bigger than such an image.
A grin formed on my face as I realized how much I wanted to fight him and kill him. What? That's not the anger issues, that's just what we are as Gripdjur, exiled or not. The love of violence, battle and taking down the strongest of opponents runs in our blood. It's fairly strong in me and like I said, I'd had some bad days and there's no room for anything but violence in your head when you go up against something like this. To this day I have to suppress the disappointment in never getting that fight as the door opened and a familiar woman walked in.
"Awake I see. Good. Don't antagonize him further just yet, I want you capable of speech and thought. For now."
She sat down casually on the floor as Mount Brutor had a tectonic movement to loom over the woman who'd spent years training me to become like her. A volur. Seer. Not quite shaman, not quite priestess, not quite elder, not quite mortal, not quite leader but someone who any Gripdjur old enough not to shit themselves on a regular basis wouldn't dare to cross.
"You didn't think we were done with you, surely? We've too much invested in you to just throw you away. Sit down, child. Well, get up and sit down."
I did. Eventually. Crossing the frozen wastes without food, a stunner shot to the head and an unscheduled flight and crash courtesy of Brutor Airlines tends to take a toll on a person. I counted two cracked or broken ribs, two sprains, one dislocated shoulder and both my prosthetics were running dangerously low on power, and that was just what I could discern through that full body weariness and ache only a very select few in the entire cluster will ever have the privilege of knowing. Besides, her face had brought back everything from the sentencing and execution of the verdict to my mind and trying to avoid a complete hysterical breakdown didn't leave me anything left to do but obey.
I sat across from her, mirroring her pose as I always did during her lessons as a hundred questions flew through my mind as I feebly and futilely tried to grasp them for a few minutes. Why? How? There was even a glimmer of hope squirming around in there, that they'd reconsidered. That hope was quite thoroughly squashed, not by her but by a rising anger in my chest that refused to accept such a cheap cop out from facing the consequences of my actions. Good thing they hadn't reconsidered.
"What are the circles?"
Everything faded away as confusion took the main stage.
"What?"
"The circles. What are they?"
A question you'd ask a child, or in my case years ago, a brand new adopted Gripdjur who'd been given the most rudimentary lessons about Gripdjur society. My mind raced, trying to discern some reason or hidden question hiding under this surreal return to childrens' creches across the villages. She simply stared at me until exhaustion took over and I recited the lesson by rote, reaching for a small jar of finger paints - again, the same as would be in a childrens' creche - to dip a finger in it. I started tracing a pattern on the floor in front of me, three concentric circles with three lines cutting through them, meeting in a cross in the middle.
"The first circle is the cherished people. The innocent. The pure. The beloved baker. The sturdy farmer. The admired hunter. The wise teacher. The true people of the clan. The ones that must never know the pain of violence. That must not know abandonment as their loved ones are taken or killed. The ones who we all must live for.
The first circle is the clan."
I traced the second circle.
"The second circle is the cherished people. Those who serve the first. The cunning thief taker. The stalwart Keeper of Law. The wealthy Trader. The methodical Planner. The gentle Healer. The servants of the true people of the clan, equally cherished as the first but one line apart. Sacrificing innocence and a circle of protection to serve.
The second circle is the clan."
I traced the third, outer circle.
"The third circle is the cherished people. Those who look outwards in service to the first two. The fearsome Varyag. The cunning Spy. The unbreakable Shieldbearer. Those who protect the clan from all things not of the clan, sacrificing everything so those within can have everything.
The third and final circle is the clan."
I drew a line into the center.
"The elders who preside over the clan. Of all three circles, but above them all. Not part of the circles, but part of the clan."
A second line.
"The Volur who See. Of all three circles, but above them all. Not part of the circles, but part of the clan."
A third line.
"The Shamans. Of all three circles, but above them all. Not part of the circles, but part of the clan."
I stared down at the pattern.
"There is but one purpose among the Gripdjur. To serve the first circle. To give safety, happiness and life to the people of the first. To allow them innocence. For this purpose, some sacrifice that innocence and move outwards. They sacrifice themselves to the second and third circles for the sake of the first. Some are chosen to rise above them all and support all three, with the skills and training of the Volur, Elder and Shamans. Once you leave a circle, you can never return. In the second circle you learn that which take away the innocence and peace of the first, and must thus watch from outside in the knowledge that you stand between them and harm. In the third circle you must face outwards, for you have sacrificed even that which the second circle retains and have become that which must endure only what lies beyond. The things that strive to destroy the first."
While I still hadn't managed to figure out why she had me recite this childrens' version of basic Gripdjur society - and basic it was. There were hundreds of circles, some overlapping between these main three, composing pretty much every civil and military service or trade imaginable. - the confusion started eroding under the weight of the rising anger. I didn't want to think about these things. I was outside the third circle now. Exiled. I'd never even get to gaze upon the first and if I ever approached the third they'd try their damnedest to kill me. Exhausted as I was, the sheer strength of my fury must have shown as my blank white gaze fell upon her eyes because Mount Brutor's stance shifted. Eruption was a definite possibility. She simply looked amused.
"Be calm, child. There is a purpose to this. You have failed your clan and you have failed yourself. You didn't commit the crimes, obviously and it's a harsh punishment for falling in love and thinking you'd turned someone from a path of evil, but it was your failure nonetheless. As I said however, we have invested far too much in you to discard you this easily. A Horned Mask, capsuleer and volur trained warrior? We'd kill you before we threw you away, girl."
I was too tired and my head hurt too much to do much but look silently at her, but I carefully made sure the anger was there if I needed it.
"I watched you throughout your ordeal. You might not have realized it yet, but it's a series of tests. The first is simple. Are you Gripdjur enough to take responsibility for your actions? You came voluntarily. We hadn't even heard of what happened until you confessed her crimes and stood ready for judgment. Are you Gripdjur enough to recognize the shame and sorrow it entails to be marked as you are now, and to be exiled? You cried like a child. Your mind and body wracked with grief, sorrow and regret at what you had done. Are you, in spite of all this, still strong enough to stand and continue on? Do you have what it takes to keep going? You survived the wastes on foot, which very few exiled ever do."
She tapped a finger outside the third circle, a cunning smile appearing slowly as she continued.
"You made it out here. Once, you were slated to be above the third circle, as a volur. Now, that can never be because you can never return across that boundary, but there is a very simple truth to this pattern that almost no one seems to realize. There are two sides to the third circle. The inside and the outside. If you survive it, you are now going to become something less than a dozen people in the clan ever know about. You will become the edge of the shadow we cast upon New Eden."
Her eyes grew harder as I felt her command of the spirits around us reach out.
"You will become the Penumbra of the Gripdjur."
Darkness swallowed me again as I slid to the floor. I wouldn't wake up for two more days.
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Topic: Penumbra, part Two: The Third Circle (Read 2815 times)